


Forgotten

by Posher10



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Grief/Mourning, Illnesses, Minor Character Death, Plague
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-21
Updated: 2018-05-21
Packaged: 2019-05-09 22:49:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14725067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Posher10/pseuds/Posher10
Summary: Elrohir cannot save a young girl's life, and her last words haunt in for years. ONESHOT, FINISHED





	Forgotten

Disclaimer: The only thing I own is Cynthia, all the rest belongs to Tolkien  
Cynthia sends her apologizes for any mistakes.  


The girl panted. Each breath she took was labored. Her cheeks were blue. She wasn’t getting enough air. Elrohir leaned forward, taking her head into his lap and gently stroking her hair in an attempt to calm her down.  


“Shhh… breath.” He cooed.  


Her eyes were jerking around randomly, never seeming to process what she saw. She clutched at the grass beneath her fingertips. And always, always, her breathing was ragged. It pained Elrohir to see anyone like this.  


He had been passing through a forest, taking a ride, when he came across a village he had never seen before. They had been struck by an illness he had never seen before either. A deadly illness. In fact, he had found only a single person- the girl, no more than nine- still alive. But she was also infected. And it was clear she was dying.  


The girl started coughing.  


“What’s your name?" Elrohir asked in an attempt to get her breath more easily.  


“Cy-n-thia.” She sputtered out.  


“It’s nice to meet you, Cynthia. My name is Elrohir.” Her breathing began to slow and became less labored.  


Thank the Valar.  


“How old are you, Cynthia?”  


“Eight…” Was the whispered reply. He smiled sadly, never ceasing the caressing over her golden-blonde locks.  


“What are your hobbies?”  


“…hobbies?” Cynthia’s eyes were closed. Her pulse was becoming weaker beneath Elrohir’s other hand, which was pressed to her wrist. She was dying. And there was nothing he could do but sit there.  


“Things you like to do in your spare time.” He clarified, plastering an expression of calm on his face for her sake.  


“… I like to draw…” Cynthia’s voice was less than a murmur now and Elrohir could barely hear it.  


“What do you like to draw?”  


“…The moon…”  


“That’s a pretty thing to draw.” He said. Suddenly, Cynthia’s eyes began to fill with tears.  


“I don’t want to die! I don’t want to be forgotten…” She cried out, her breathing quickening again.  


“Shhh…” He said a bit forcefully, worried.  


It was too late.  


Her pulse faded to nothing.  


Her breathing disappeared.  


Her blue eyes grew dark and lifeless.  


Cynthia was dead.  


She died at dusk as if the world itself had grown darker at her passing.  


And for the first time in a long time, Elrohir cried.  


And for a while, he kneeled there, in the center of a village void of people, the corpse of a girl at his feet.  
And- for a period unknown to him, for time was meaningless at that moment- Elrohir mourned the women that could have been but never would be.  
…  


Elrohir buried the people of the village. Each body was given their own grave.  


They were all unmarked. What could he mark them with? He didn’t even know their names.  


All but one. A single grave had a stone. On it, it simply read, “Here lies Cynthia, Artist of the moon.”  


He had buried her last. And, as he carried her limp form to the hole that was meant for her, Elrohir noticed the ring that she wore on her left hand. It was a sparkling silver band, set with a stone of the purest blue, like the color of the sea. He did know where she had gotten it. The ring was out of place with the rest of her attire. And Elrohir knew he would never know.  


He laid her in the grave, crossing her hands over her stomach and closing her eyes. Then, he slipped the blue ring off her finger and onto his own.  
Elrohir pushed the dirt into the hole.  


And he knew he would never forget the sight of her, face pale as the moonlight she would draw, her golden-blonde hair splayed out beneath her and glittering in the light of the morning sun, as the dark dirt slowly covered it.  


Elrohir smoothed the bunches out of the dirt when he was done and, again, he held his head in his hands and wept.  


The blue stone on his ring caught the sunlight.  
….  


Elrohir returned the day after, the silver band seeming to weigh heavily on his finger as he left. When he returned, he was bombarded with questions of where he had been. Elrohir told them that he had become lost but spoke not a word about Cynthia or the village. It seemed that his brother and father did not notice the grim demeanor that enveloped his usually bright nature, nor the ring that now adorned his hand.  


In fact, for many years, no one ever asked about that silver band, which Elrohir never removed, or about the time he was lost in the forest, which changed Elrohir's life in a way he never forgot. For Cynthia's fear was unfounded. Elrohir never forgot her.  



End file.
